


I tag for Watson's War

by ko_writes



Series: Cabin Pressure Prompts [9]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Douglas nearly beats Martin to a pulp, Gen, Graffiti, Graffiti used to highlight political and sociatal issues, Martin fakes the posh accent, Martin is a Holmes, Mentions of Suicide, Mycroft used to Graffiti, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock References, mentions of drug use, tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: If Sherlock is Martin's step-brother... then poor Martin would have The Call. You know, the call of someone telling that his brother's just committed suicide by jumping from a building. <br/>And then he would see the papers with all the things about his brother being a fake, and killing himself out of shame/spite/because he was mentally unstable.<br/>(and if Martin could join the I Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement, that would be awesome.)</p><p>I ran a little wild...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I tag for Watson's War

   He hung up the phone. Dear God, no. Not him. Anyone but him. They were friends, to an extent; he was his mentor. No. He refused to believe that could happen. Sherlock Holmes – his half-brother – had committed suicide.

   He refused to believe it. Sherlock must still be alive.

He got a member of the homeless network – Harley – to bring him a London paper every week, to see if Sherlock was in it. He even paid her.

   He had seen the tabloids; Sherlock was a ‘fake’, apparently – what a load of crap!

   There was a knock at the door. “Martin! It’s Harley!” One of the students – Danny – called.

   “Send her up…” He called feebly. No. Sherlock wasn’t dead. He faked it – Martin knew it. He wondered if John did…

   His door clicked open, “Hello, Martin,” Harley nodded. Her cockney accent was weakened with the softness and sympathy. “I’m guessing you ‘eard.”

   Martin sighed. He hadn’t realised he had been crying; he wiped away the tears. He let his accent slip, as he often did around Harley, Mycroft and Sherlock. He was still a Crieff – sort of, not really – and the Crieff’s talked like that. “Yeah, just got off the phone. ‘e ain’t a fake, and he ain’t dead.”

   “I don’ know if ‘e’s dead or not; but I know he ain’t a fake. He told me things about meself, you know? That I never told a soul. You see a lot when you walk with ‘im. ‘E’ll be missed. We loved ‘im, we did.”

   “I loved ‘im, too. He taught me to not give a toss about what other people want and do what _I_ want. He was a mentor, really.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah. But when he was out, at one of those dens; Mycroft taught me to stand up for what I believe in. He’d take me taggin’, you know what I mean?”

   “Graffiti, right?”

   “Yeah; we did good stuff. He’d tag stuff like gay rights, mental health, feminism; Mycroft was a hero in a hoodie, to me. I always painted stuff on the bridges, inspirational stuff, hoping to help the jumpers. I wonder if it did…”

   “You painted that aeroplane mural?”

   “Yeah, I was good in the day. Still am, actually; if a bit rusty.”

   “Look. I need to tell you. We’re startin’ a little campaign… A taggin’ campaign. ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’. It’s also called ‘Watson’s War’. We need someone in Fitton…”

   “You guys get me some cheap paint; I’m your tagger.”

~*~

   Martin was true to his word. He tagged Fitton with his art. ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ with the detective’s distinctive silhouette; ‘I fight Watson’s War’ with a firing gun. He was going to do his next tag on the biggest house in the area… Douglas’ house.

   He was idly sketching a design in his plain notebook. It was good. John, DI Lestrade, Miss Hooper, Sargent Donovan, Anderson (who he hated – such and idiot and obsessed with _dinosaurs_ of all things) and Mycroft, in the shadows, though; where he always was. He also had little items from Sherlock’s biggest cases – a pink phone in Sherlock’s hand; the Chinese numbers; a Samtex vest and Parka coat on John (he’d apologise for that later); the password for Irene Adler’s phone; the Hound lurking in some more shadows; and all of them had wings, but Sherlock’s were patchy and broken in places. Underneath was the text; ‘a fallen angel heads the team of light, who saves the day. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.’

   Carolyn stormed in, crumpling a local newspaper in her vice-like grip. “Bloody vandals…” She muttered.

   Douglas groaned, “It’s that bloody graffiti, isn’t it? ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’, what rubbish!”

   Martin gritted his teeth. No. No outburst. He needed to control his temper, like Mycroft tried to teach him. It barely worked – but it was close enough.

   “He was a fake! Who could do that?!” Carolyn demanded.

   Martin growled in the back of his throat. “Oh, Martin… You don’t believe all that rubbish, do you?” Douglas laughed. No response. “Martin, just ask you, how could he have known all those things?”

   Sherlock and Mycroft had taught him how to deduce – true; he was slower and saw less; but he did see what they saw. He saw the battlefield too; because it was his, also. Moriarty had come after him; good thing being a man with a van builds up muscle and Sherlock taught him some basic self-defence. He glared at Douglas in the Holmesian manner; cold and calculated. Douglas shrunk against his chair oh so slightly, but enough for a well trained eye to see. He wanted to show him – say the things Sherlock would – but not yet. He couldn’t be discovered until after tonight – he’d worry about the rest later.

   “Gullible little boy,” Carolyn chuckled as she ruffled his hair patronisingly and swanned to her office.

   “Awfully cheery for someone who’s been abused half her life…” Martin muttered.

   “What was that?”

   “She’s awfully cheery, isn’t she?”

   Douglas hummed.

   Tonight. Just think about tonight.

~*~

   The black ski mask and hoodie were required, in case anyone saw him. His bag clinked as he walked down Douglas’ road; well, the estate’s road. There in was. A big, white, plain canvas.

   Martin smiled. He loved this feeling.

   He made quick work of it; avoiding any windows in case he was seen. There was only the light hiss of the aerosol to betray his position. _I’m fighting in a war. Have to keep my head down. I’m fighting Watson’s war._

   There was a crunch of gravel. It wasn’t him, far too loud; someone a good deal heavier than himself. Good quality shoes, too. There wasn’t any question who it was. Oh well, he was more or less done – he’d painted the thing and wrote the text – highlighting was only a pompous, showy detail. Sherlock loved those; it showed that you didn’t care if you were caught.

   “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Came the first officer’s growl.

   He didn’t reply, just threw his spray can in his bag and walked away.

   “Come back here, you little twerp.”

   _Not betraying your age at all, Douglas_ , he thought sarcastically. He kept walking.

   “I’m talking to you!”

   He sneered at that. A sneer was safe, Douglas never heard him sneer.

   He heard the heavy footsteps begin to run. Oh shit. He ran as well – light and agile – but Douglas had the head start.

He was wrestled to the ground, arm twisted behind his back like he was being arrested. He had been arrested often when he was with Sherlock and Mycroft. He knew what to do. He went limp, minimising the strain on his arm. “All right, you little punk –” Martin rolled his eyes. Idiot. “Why are you painting this stuff all over town?”

   He fought back his response. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, he mustn’t.

   “Not a talker, eh?” Douglas tore down his hood. Oh fuck. A firm grasp was on the mask. He closed his eyes as it was pulled off. “Martin…?”

   “Yes,” Was the monotonous reply.

   “Wha-what were you –?”

   “Get off.”

   “No, not until you explain.”

   “I’m fighting Watson’s war.”

   “Why are you doing this?! He was a fake –!”

   “– You read it in the newspaper, so it _must_ be true!” Martin spat sarcastically. “A homage to a genius, a hero and a loving brother.”

   “What?”

   “Sherlock Holmes – my half-brother – was a genius. He and our other brother Mycroft taught me how to deduce. How to not give a shit as well, actually. Mycroft taught me how to tag – he was a true hero; gay rights, feminism, mental health, eating disorders; he drew attention to them all. Sherlock – when he wasn’t high – was one of my best friends. And now he’s dead because people like you refuse to believe that someone can be so smart, run rings around you – God forbid anyone realising what Mycroft is capable of!”

   “He was your brother…”

   “What? Didn’t think the _freak_ had a family? He’s a freak or a fraud, which one do you think he is?”

   “Martin, you said you can do what he did –”

   “How _was_ that Talisker? Back on the sauce, Douglas; tut tut. Mind, I can’t judge; Morphine was so sweet when she lasted.” This was Martin _Holmes_. The deductions, the sharp, calculating eyes; he always reminded Mycroft of Sherlock.

   “Piss off.”

   “That’s what they said to him.”

   “I can’t believe –”

   “You have to; tiny, tiny brain. I’ve already had attempts on my life because of my brother, not that it’s his fault. Just phone if I don’t make it in, I’m probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

   “But –”

   A black car pulled up. “Excellent tagging, Martin.” A smooth, familiar voice complemented from inside the car, shadowed.

   “Hello, brother mine.”

   “Mr Richardson,” A barrel of a gun caught the light of the moon, “You might want to let him go.”

   Douglas staggered off the boy as Martin smirked. He got up; “See you Monday,” got in the car, and drove away. He was a Holmes through and through.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah; so... Here it is. Please review.


End file.
